Butte semi-weekly miner. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1886-1890, 1887-01-08
THISTLE DOWN.

the EIeaL mOL0efS VOICE As S00 fec0f0e(
the fact.
The sky was a pale, translucent blue, ant
the air was exquisitely cool and invigoratingg
In the clear light, the glorious tints Of golt
and brown and red and fading green in tn
distant woods anne out in bold yet perfec
harmony, while on the hillside, where tn
early sunlight fell, the bracken caught tn
CLEAN and made a golden glory.
A young girl walked along the rugged foot
path skirting the hill, but though she wa,
young and beautiful, she seemed out Of con
cord with natures joyous mood. She walket
with slow and listless step, and started ner
vously, as though she had been oblivious o.
her surroundings, when a partridge rose will
a whirr from a clump Of furze and fern neal
her feet. The beauty seemed lost to her, fol
she never stopped to look around, nor did sht
cast even a passing glance at the lesser lowell
ness that bordered her path.
Here and they fingered q late harebe1
making a touch Of blue among the brown and
gold and olive tints Of fern and waving grass
there a seeding dandelion showed its ball o.
feathery arrows, fragile and beautiful as q
poets dream; and tiny threads Of silverJ
gossamer waved lightly from stem to stem Of
grass or prickly leaf of thistle.
The girl seated herself at length on q gray
and rugged bowlder, and looked YEARLY
round.
"Only a year ago" she sighed; "onlya yea1
ago, and yet long enough to be forgotten.
And there was a despairing languor in hel
attitude that was pitiful in so young a crea,
ture.
Yet the fair oval face, with its wistful
e4fk hrnurn a,yoe orA wouSrp hoSr Touched
with gold where the light fell on it, and the
little rosy mouth with the dimples round it,
where smiles had played 50 often that even
sadness could not Danish the memory of them,
seemed all things little likely to fade from the
recollection of any man who had even been
privileged to dream of possessing them.
She was a border maiden though, and shy
and proud like them all; perchance the man
she loved had gone. little dreaming Of the
treasure he had won.
Half a poet, too, surely was she, with that
strange blending Of hidden imaginativeness
with outward matter Of factness, which is 50
characteristic Of Northumbrian women. Who
that saw her tripping about her home. busy
with little domestic duties as if the whole of
life were summed up in such q daily round,
would dream Of tho fancies that filled her
heart as sho sat on tho lonely hillside and
gazed with all her soul in her eyes away to
the soulful
A tall thistle grew near, topped no longer
by royal purple flowers, but crowned with
little downy seeds, ready to be waited where
tho wind might choose.
Half unconsciously she gathered one or two
of these and toyed with them.
As she did so, the pretty north Of England
legend fitted back to her memory.
What was it again! If you thought Of one
you loved, and waited a kiss towards him or
her on a piece Of thistle down, the fairies
would bear it to the dear one and whisper the
loving thought that was sent with it.
Folly, ay, folly, and yet such folly keeps
the heart of humanity young forever.
Blushing, though none saw her, nor heard
ber-save the fainar, If they were present.
the girl kissed tho tiny seed and breathed his
name as she waited it southwark, and then,
covering her face with her hands, she shed
just a tear or two.
After that she went home, a tri1e COM
forted, glad to have found even this silly little
way of expressing the love within her soul.
A love SO great and strong and deep that
never would the whole of it be told. and yet
so innocent and sweet that it could find relief
in a fancy treasured from childhood. Was it
true, then, that such love could be doomed to
hopelessness-that such q woman could be
forgottenl
In the distant city a young man is seated Ut
a writing table, his brow knit as il in deep
thought, lines of care about his eyes and
mouth, while there is a look of somewhat
~feverish brilliancy in the former as he raises
them for a moment sometimes from his page.
Not wholly a pleasant face seen thus. There
is q hardness and a keenness in the expression
that jars on the close observer, n a cynical
curve iii the lip that tells of a nature which IS
fonder of criticising the weaknesses Of human
jty than of identifying himself with it In
brotherly helpfulness and love.
Look over his manuscript, too, for a mo-
ment. Very clever it is, no doubt Shrewd
as insight is when it works without charity;
sarcastic as wit is when it 10 longer cares to
be tempered by justice; sharp and clearly cut
in its definitions, as when knowledge divorces
itself from truth. It is what is called a $50
cial article" that the young man is writing,
but one of a kind which belle their name. II
humanity were such as shown there society
would be at an end.
He is tired, and he pushes his hair back
from his forehead as though it ached, and
turns to the Open window for a moment and
lets the evening air fan his cheek; for the day,
which was so cool and sweet in the country,
has seemed close and airless in the smoky city
where the writer dwells.
Then he takes up his pen again and turns to
his page, but something arrests his hand. A
very simple thing surely to put a stop to such
S->s.:s~a corkon1pr f.ek q hit ~ thsct1A l4v.rn
that a breath could watt from the paper in
instant and no trace be left,
Only the young fellow doesn't seem dis
posed to rid himself of it so summarily; in
stead, he gazes as if it possessed occult power
and opened some new scene to him.
Perhaps it does, for he feels all at once that
something has given the lie to the words he
has written.
He seems to see a fair young face looking
at his with a panied wonderment, and sud-
denly he judges his work, not by the critical
of popular journalism, but by the ideal
standard Of a pure, unsophisticated woman's
soul.
The very remembrance Of that woman, too,
has made humanity appear iviner; no longer
does it seem a thing to be summed up in an
epigram, or disposed of with q meer.
lays down his pen, n the magic
evoked by the spell Of that tiny
downy seed transports him away from city
smoke and turmoil to the breezy northern
bills.
Just a year since be stood among them, but
Is memory takes him back once more he
recognizes what that year has done, and the
recognition is not a pleasant one.
1t has aged him more than it had any right |
10 do-aged him with the loss Of youths en-
Ihusiasm, youths ardor, and, alas! much also
Of its purity.
Yet he has got on in lifel Only somehow
life seems to have grown so little worth. He
las made ambition his god, and the sacrifices
1e has offered on its altar have been many, |
md To- it does not seem to him that his re-
igion has been an ennobling one.
In the few seconds during which the past
oils back IN him the young man has a sort
II dual consciousness; he sees himself on the
:anvas, as it were, and yet plays the part Of
But it is not his own fgc-e that interests
him most in the scene before him, it is that of
The bright young girl walking by its side.
How happy she seems, and how at home with